It’s Good Enough for Me

The renaissance in children’s programming.

Some of the best shows for children follow the procedural format.Credit Illustration by Shape & Colour

When children’s television comes up in conversation, everyone knows the drill. Begin with the sinister idiom “screen time.” To show you’re no prig, make a warm remark about “Sesame Street.” Name your favorite Muppet. (I suggest Beaker or the Swedish chef.) Then begin the lament, and lay it on thick, with comparisons to candy and drugs. Decry the trend of marketing to newborns, the co-branded toys, the childhood obesity, the dwindling attention spans, the fate of the picture book, the wasted hours the American child spends in front of the tube (three a day, on average!), and all those selfish, shower-taking parents who use TV as a babysitter.

For six decades, people have been wringing their hands with worry, echoing panics about the corrupting influence of comic books and rock music. Not to mention radio: in 1936, the educator Azriel Eisenberg warned that parents “cannot lock out this intruder because it has gained an invincible hold of their children.” Over the years, such rhetoric has shifted from the moral to the neural, with spiritual anxieties now expressed in the fear that young kids will grow addicted to dopamine squirts, their brains ruined rather than their souls.

I’m hardly immune to such concerns; like many parents, I limit my children’s Tivo time. (Except for weekend mornings. I’m not a saint.) But, as a critic, I’d argue that it’s time to recognize what this exhausting, rancorous debate has obscured: a quiet renaissance among children’s shows, many of them innovative in ways that parallel the simultaneous rise of great scripted television for adults. The best of these shows are as visually thrilling as they are well constructed. And, like the top dramas for adults, they harness to bold new ends the genre most deeply associated with episodic television’s strengths—the formulaic procedural, familiar to viewers from series like “Law & Order.”

Until 2005, I had no idea that such shows existed: if you don’t have young children, it’s easy to condescend to the form. Then, as a new parent, I dutifully followed the American Academy of Pediatrics guidelines—no TV until two. I did so in the manner of other parents I knew, which is to say with my first child. By 2007, when I was juggling a two-year-old and a newborn, a little TV watching in the pre-early morning seemed pretty appealing. And it was then, rattled by sleep deprivation, that I discovered Miffy.

“Miffy and Friends” is a Claymation series based on the children’s books by the Dutch artist Dick Bruna, who created the character in 1955. The show presented a world so stunningly peaceful that I dreamed of entering it myself. It was drawn in the minimalist, mouthless style of “Hello Kitty.” (The brand sued the owner of the popular Japanese character for ripping off Bruna’s style; the two sides recently settled in court.) Its heroine lived with her animal friends in an idyllic Dutch town, but none of them spoke; their small dramas were narrated in voice-over. The pace was slow. The colors—red, blue, and yellow—were brilliant. It was like a shelter magazine for toddlers. The mood was so lulling that when, in one sequence, Miffy gave her broken toy a small, frustrated kick, my husband was startled. Yet, meditative as the show was, Miffy was a jolt to my expectations. This was children’s TV? Why was it so beautiful?

Like most parents of my generation, I watched plenty of television as a child, although my choices were comparatively narrow: there were just three networks, plus PBS. This was the seventies, the heyday of “Sesame Street” and “The Electric Company,” shows created by Joan Ganz Cooney and her team of progressive researchers at the Children’s Television Workshop, whose goal, according to “Street Gang: The Complete History of Sesame Street,” by Michael Davis, was to “master the addictive qualities of television and do something good with them.” (Almost everyone behind breakthrough children’s shows had a do-gooder’s passion to redeem the dirty medium.) Set in a city, among a diverse cast of puppets and humans, the Children’s Television Workshop productions gleamed with liberal sophistication, with fast-paced skits that satirized TV news and advertising—“This episode is brought to you by the letter P!” There was also the meltingly empathetic Mister Rogers, who had been around since the sixties; the junky vaudeville productions of Sid and Marty Krofft; the droll ultraviolence of the Looney Tunes cartoons; and reruns of sweet old classics like “Kukla, Fran and Ollie.”

In the eighties, children’s programming took a dive, with the rise of loud, aggressive series like “He-Man” and “She-Ra,” half-hour toy commercials disguised as television shows. Cable had blown the market open, but there was little focus on quality, and the Saturday-morning lineup was dominated by cheap animation from Hanna-Barbera, the once proud institution behind “Tom and Jerry,” which was now off-loading crass content like “The Smurfs” and “Challenge of the GoBots.” This type of series began to wane after 1990, when Congress passed the Children’s Television Act, and networks were required to demonstrate that their programming slates included educational material—although what was “good for children” was not necessarily the same as “good.” In 1992, that big purple optimist “Barney” became a hit. In 2000, Nickelodeon débuted “Dora the Explorer,” which featured a Latina heroine and a curriculum of puzzle-solving. Brassy and wholesome, and kryptonite to adults, “Dora” became such a powerful brand that it supercharged the market. I’d seen the show in passing. I was not a fan.

Yet in 2007 I was amazed to discover a sparkling universe of alternatives, some mainstream, some niche. To my theoretical alarm and pragmatic delight, many were aimed at children between two and five years old, with companies like Nickelodeon, PBS Kids, and Disney vying to find a new Dora. There were so many shows that subgenres emerged, from the realistic, like “Little Bill,” to the psychedelic, like the hip “Yo Gabba Gabba!” Some had video-game aesthetics, like “The Backyardigans”; others featured whimsical collage-scapes, like the British “Charlie and Lola.” And there were plenty of variety acts, including “Jack’s Big Music Show.” Owing to the burgeoning “kindie pop” phenomenon, my morning viewing now featured regular guest appearances by stars like Mos Def and the Ting Tings.

Every one of these shows had the requisite educational bona fides, including the behemoths “Dora the Explorer”; its spinoff “Go, Diego, Go!”; and the comparatively humane “Blue’s Clues,” which premièred in 1996. As Malcolm Gladwell suggested in “The Tipping Point,” these Nickelodeon hits were constructed, as “Sesame Street” had been, by means of research and analysis. But the new scientific approach was aimed primarily at making a show “sticky”—that is, magnetizing the attention spans of little kids. The resulting episodes were rigorously formulaic and no fun for adults. On “Dora,” 2-D characters stare out of the screen, yell a question, and then pause for a response, catering to a toddler’s learning style. “Blue’s Clues” is gentler, but just as repetitious. “An adult considers constant repetition boring, because it requires reliving the same experience over and over again,” Gladwell writes. “But to preschoolers repetition isn’t boring, because each time they watch something, they are experiencing it in a completely different way.”

“Sesame Street” was still on PBS, but I couldn’t get my kids to watch it. To them, the series felt choppy and aggressive, full of parodies of things they’d never heard of. Like all revolutionary TV comedies, from “Monty Python” to “30 Rock,” “Sesame Street” was at heart a satirical commentary on television. The series my sons favored were milder, more immersive, with stories that reflected child-size dramas: tantrums, sharing, and fantasies of adventure in the larger world.

Among the best of these shows was “Wonder Pets,” which was created in 2006 by Josh Selig, a show runner who grew up within the children’s-television industry. Selig appeared on “Sesame Street” as a child, and then, as an adult, wrote for that show and several others. In 1999, he founded Little Airplane Productions, which created and produced “Oobi,” “3rd & Bird,” and the new series “Small Potatoes.” Like everyone in his industry, Selig has been forced to navigate the many pressures of the modern production process, from the demands that shows be “toyetic” (an ugly neologism describing a show’s capacity for selling products) to the trend described in Dade Hayes’s illuminating book “Anytime Playdate” (2008) as KGOY, “marketing shorthand for ‘kids getting older younger.’ ”

“Wonder Pets” demonstrates that a series can emerge from this process with idiosyncratic, even auteurist sensibilities, despite the pressure to be at once “sticky,” multi-platform, and educational. Selig told me that he pitched “Wonder Pets” to the children’s cable channel Nick Jr. with a simple cutout photograph of a guinea pig. But then he brought in the visual artist Jennifer Oxley, and their collaboration resulted in a sensually dazzling series, a revelation to anyone brought up on the schlock aesthetics of Hanna-Barbera. In Selig’s innovation, the dialogue on “Wonder Pets” is sung operetta style, with a live orchestra used during the recording. Oxley invented a technique called “photo-puppetry,” in which real photographs are manipulated, broken down, and rigged for animation, invoking a layered universe of textures. Like “Miffy,” “Wonder Pets” is peaceful, yet also witty and emotional, with themes recognizable from modern notions of child development: the emphasis is on teamwork, empathy, and working through frustration, rather than on self-esteem.

Still, it’s the show’s narrative repetitions that are most striking. Each episode begins with the sound of children laughing as they say goodbye to their class pets. (Sometimes we hear a scrap of dialogue, such as a child telling his mother he’s losing a tooth.) In the empty classroom, we zoom in on Linny the guinea pig, Tuck the turtle, and a duckling named Ming-Ming. A pencil holder rattles, creating a telephone ring, and the pets get their mission: there’s an animal in trouble! Singing as they prepare, the Wonder Pets build a “flyboat” from toys. The optics are so dense they’re nearly kaleidoscopic. The pets pull on thematic costumes; the walls show children’s drawings that are linked to the plot. (In an episode in which the pets rescue a hedgehog in London, there’s a teacup, Big Ben, and a bowler hat.) As they sing the show’s chorus (“What’s gonna work? / Teamwork!”), the pets confront and solve a technical problem; later, they will use that solution to save the animal. In the hedgehog episode, they pry open a toy box; at the story’s climax, they repeat this act by prying the hedgehog out of a topiary.

The Wonder Pets’ rescues superficially resemble the plots of “Dora,” which also favor global veterinary emergencies. (Until I watched children’s TV, I had no idea that there were so many animals in trouble.) But the series has none of “Dora” ’s formulaic blandness; instead, it bursts with tiny, sophisticated jokes, both musical and visual. When the hedgehog pops out, he rolls through croquet wickets. In a Japanese episode, the characters enter a gorgeous brushstroke-style painting. The pets have toddler personalities, at times bratty and flawed: in one of the funniest episodes, the melodramatic MingMing sings a melancholy aria that ends with “The animal in trouble is . . . me!” Ollie, a bunny who refuses to collaborate, creates a rival team called the Thunder Pets, consisting of himself and two inanimate objects: a rock and a toy frog.

Like “Dora,” “Wonder Pets” teaches kids about other parts of the globe. What’s a plover? What’s a fjord? Like “Blue’s Clues,” it traffics in problem solving. But what really unifies these shows is how strongly their satisfactions echo those of legal procedurals. As with a show like “Law & Order,” there’s enormous pleasure for a repeat viewer in knowing what comes next, then enjoying small variations. At the climax, Ming-Ming always sings, ‘This! Is! Sewwious!” At the finale, a grateful parent appears. “Thank you ever so much,” the mother hedgehog says, and she invites the Wonder Pets for tea. As always, they have celebratory celery and fly home.

“Ni Hao, Kai-Lan” resembles “Dora” even more directly: it’s interactive, with pauses and drills, but it teaches kids social skills (plus a little Mandarin) instead of focussing on analytical thinking. It’s more alien to adult sensibilities, and according to Hayes’s “Anytime Playdate,” which traces the development of the show, it was hammered into shape by means of focus groups and corporate consultation. Even so, the series is in its way as intoxicating as “Wonder Pets,” owing to the lush symbolic universe of the illustrations, by Karen Chau, the show’s creator. In each episode, the saucer-eyed heroine, Kai-Lan, coaches the viewer in techniques for handling envy, calming down, and continuing to try: it’s like cognitive-behavioral therapy for the toddler soul. On this series and others, there’s an emphasis on perseverance; so many shows have songs about trying hard that my sons began singing them during difficult tasks.

One typical “Ni Hao, Kai-Lan” episode dramatizes the notion that good friends keep their promises. But the episode nests that lesson in dizzying, fractal imagery: Kai-Lan spins on a merry-go-round, then observes a mini-universe of snails with their own tiny merry-go-round. (It breaks, and she promises to fix it.) An ant races by on a scooter in the shape of a panda. (Kai-Lan’s friend is tempted to break his promise in order to go race with him.) A pink rhino floats overhead, taking some dancing worms for a promised merry-go-round-like spin. When, finally, Kai-Lan gets back on her own merry-go-round—which is shaped like a ladybug, with ladybug-shaped seats—the structure rises from the ground and spins away. Kai-Lan makes the shape of a heart with her hands, sending a bright-red heart into the air like a balloon. Despite the pedagogy, the show feels as fizzy as a carbonated drink—it’s a message of joy that doesn’t match any particular curriculum.

Television for adults and television for children are usually discussed as entirely separate entities, with different aims. But the way that shows like “Wonder Pets” and “Ni Hao, Kai-Lan” took a successful formula, then built something handsome on its blunt scaffolding, reflects the evolution of modern television. “Law & Order” débuted in 1990. It was a sleek, pleasurable, and lucrative model, and it spawned endless imitators and spinoffs. Then, as the century turned, auteurist creators began to do something intriguing: they produced dramas like “The Shield,” “Dexter,” “Dollhouse,” and “Terriers,” experimental series that didn’t abandon the pleasures of episodic TV but took its familiar DNA and twisted it hard. These shows weren’t always commercial hits: “Terriers” was cancelled after one season. Similarly, the most interesting children’s shows don’t always get the highest ratings. (If they aren’t sufficiently “toyetic,” they will have a short run.) But, like their adult analogues, they can find fresh audiences through reruns, DVDs, and online streaming.

Now, I’m not suggesting that “Wonder Pets” is the kiddie version of “The Wire.” (Maybe it’s more like “Monk.”) But there’s something inspiring in the way that these shows find freedom, and beauty, by respecting their medium’s innate strengths and constraints, instead of viewing them with disdain.

Even at their most revolutionary, of course, such shows are reflexively wholesome. And, in theory, I sympathize with another modern prejudice common to parents of my cohort, the Bruno Bettelheim-inflected notion that children’s art should be not familiar but shocking, a way of purging fears and anxieties—the stuff of Roald Dahl and Neil Gaiman. There are days when I get nostalgic for the corrosive edge of the Bugs Bunny cartoons (that said, when I actually re-watched them not long ago I was alarmed to find the characters shooting one another in the face). It’s perfectly reasonable to be repelled by preachy shows, although I confess that I dislike them primarily when they promote values that I find odious; “Thomas and Friends,” for example, a depressingly popular British series, might as well be a blueprint for Victorian economics, with its fetishistic emphasis on “usefulness” and docility.

Yet television is different from books or movies. The medium is intimate, invited into our homes like a vampire. TV shows, with their episodic iterations, create a trusting bond between viewers and characters. Many children watch shows alone; even parents averse to “using television as a babysitter” may pop in a DVD on a tantrum-y afternoon. Selig told me that American shows rarely touch on death or divorce, because networks are cautious about any subject that might require a parent’s explanation. And the more I watched preschool shows the more open I became to their benign morality. When my kids began to grow out of them, I was thrilled to come across Disney’s “Phineas and Ferb,” an even more sophisticated procedural, and one whose values I could get behind, with its utopian, throwback vision of a childhood free of endless adult oversight.

“Phineas and Ferb” is an animated show that was created by Dan Povenmire and Jeff (Swampy) Marsh, formerly of “The Simpsons,” “Family Guy,” and “Spongebob Squarepants.” Povenmire and Marsh pitched the show for fifteen years before finally selling it. By that point, they both had young kids of their own. “It would probably have been a funny show if we’d written it back then,” Povenmire told me. “But it would also have been harsher and edgier—less sweet.”

“Phineas and Ferb” is almost sonnet-like in its precision. In eleven minutes (each episode has two sections), the script links three plots. In the A plot, the nine-year-old half brothers Phineas and Ferb fill a summer day with some insanely ambitious project: making a building as high as the moon, a time machine, a roller-coaster. In the B plot, their tween sister Candace tries to get their mother to “bust” them for their dangerous plan. But she always fails, because in the C plot their pet platypus, Perry—who is actually a secret agent named Agent P—has a Rocky-and-Bullwinkle-like showdown with a hapless Germanic villain named Doofenshmirtz, who builds his own superpowered machines. This battle inevitably causes the boys’ project to disappear just before their mother spots it.

But that formula doesn’t account for the wit and narrative daring of the series, which has a sprawling ensemble of minor characters, a catchy song or two in every episode, and a fusillade of repeated motifs, from Doofenshmirtz’s evil-justifying backstories to the moment when someone says, “Hey, where’s Perry?” Even better is the pedagogy sunk into each episode, and sometimes made explicit: the show’s radical vision of childhood as a time of unsupervised independence. Povenmire and Marsh claim they had no philosophy when they started (they were just “curmudgeons about kids playing too many video games”), but the series could easily have been inspired by the book “Shopcraft as Soulcraft,” which celebrates technical self-reliance and craftsmanship, or by the free-range-parenting movement. Phineas is a cheerful, intrepid engineer, so engaged by his inventive projects that he becomes an unwitting rebel against the zeitgeist of helicopter parenting and ultra-safety. In the one episode in which Candace does manage to bust her brothers (the excellent “Phineas and Ferb’s Quantum Boogaloo”), her act triggers a bleak future in which parents childproof their children and all creativity is crushed.

The series is hardly the first show designed to appeal to parents as well as to children: like “Sesame Street,” it flatters the tastes of parents who like some clever with their sweet. But it may be the first children’s series in which the moral instruction, rather than the jokes, is aimed as much at parents as at children. Once your kids have finished watching the episode, “Phineas and Ferb” suggests, you might think about releasing them into the back yard, with a pile of lumber and a tool belt. Who knows? They might build a tower as high as the moon. ♦